


Go East, Brother

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft loves lording it over Sherlock, Porn With Plot, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, alternative ending, holmescest, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m relieved to find your months out here in the Eastern-European wilderness haven’t robbed you of your flair for overly dramatic entrées – <i>blud</i>. Though I’m rather disappointed you’ve robbed <i>me</i> of my chance at an appropriate welcome quote.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go East, Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/gifts).



> Beta: the lovely wellingtongoose. I want to thank her very much for her help and advice. Google translate helped me with some of the dialogue. All remaining mistakes are mine of course
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
> 
> Author’s note 1: written for the lovely chasingriver to thank her for her ceaseless promoting of all things holmescestian, both here at LJ and over at tumblr, and for being a lovely person. Unlike her, I can't write a proper PWP, I wish I could. A pretence at something resembling a storyline always has to happen. My sincere apologies for that  
> Author’s note 2: I had lots and lots and lots of issues with every episode of S3, but they certainly gave a huge boost to my Holmescesty fangirl heart. They shouldn’t have made that plane turn around at the end of HLV, though. So basically this is an AU in which I explore some possible developments should that plane have continued on its Eastern course

The aeroplane swept through a grand arc, allowing him a last glimpse of John and Mary. From this height they were shrunk to the size of the toy soldiers he’d played with as a child. They stood holding hands, their faces following the path of the plane. Behind them Mycroft’s lonely figure loomed. He’d separated himself from the attending security personnel and appeared to be in earnest contemplation of his umbrella handle. That was a new one. Sherlock had huffed when he spotted it in his brother’s hand as he stepped out of the armoured car that had transported him to the airport. Mycroft and his ridiculous habit of buying himself _things_ whenever he was unhappy. Still, he supposed the evidence of his brother’s distress should move him.

Sherlock swallowed and turned away from the window. Instead of going shopping Mycroft should have spent the time and effort to gain access to the facility where Sherlock had been held the past three weeks. The enforced isolation – away from John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, even Mary – relieved solely by the vacant mugs of the guards who brought him his tea and food had been enough to drive him up against the walls from boredom. 

With eager expectancy he’d fallen onto the two highly insulting _spy_ novels he’d found waiting for him when he entered his luxurious prison cell, convinced they had been planted by Mycroft to provide him with a means of communication with his brother. Nine hours of frantic searching later, he’d reached the conclusion the books were indeed nothing but what they appeared to be – tedious trash filled to overflowing with plot holes, written by an idiot for the entertainment of a confederacy of dunces – and ripped them to shreds. He’d considered setting fire to the pile of paper, but a sudden exhaustion had overwhelmed him. Tears were pricking behind his eyes and he’d flung himself down on the bed, curling himself into a tiny foetus of hurt and despair, ignoring the lurch of agony that erupted from the scar on his abdomen. 

Mycroft had been scared of Magnussen, that’s why he’d made those ridiculous threats back in Baker Street. Sherlock had read his fear, etched so clearly on his features once one knew how to look past the haughty mask, and the sight of his brother’s obvious panic had _appalled_ him. 

His world, no, _their_ world, the world they’d created for themselves out of the horror that had been their childhood with their insufferable, overbearing mother and equally insufferable, moronic father, tolerated no intimidation of Mycroft, ever, from no one, except for Sherlock. Mycroft should have realised that. Once again he’d underestimated his little brother, and it was so unjust that Sherlock was the one to be punished for it. Again.

***

Several times he contemplated escaping, but that would only anger Mycroft even more. One evening he was nearly tempted to pay Jim a visit. His hand was already on the railing of the staircase in the house in Lauriston Gardens where Jim was kept, locked away in his padded cell down in the basement, when high above him the door to the attic opened and Molly came chasing down the stairs, positioning herself in front of him to slap him in the face, twice.

“Stop it!” she shouted, “Just stop it.”

Behind her Mycroft’s lonely figure loomed. He appeared to be in earnest contemplation of his umbrella handle. 

“You heard her, Sherlock,” he said. “I’d say Miss Hooper has just dealt you a piece of sound advice, should you care for my opinion on the matter.”

“Mycroft.” He felt his knees go slack and sank down, with his hands up in the air. “Oh God, Mycroft.”

“Your loss would break my heart, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated. “Don’t go down there ever again.”

“No, Mycroft, I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” Casually swinging his umbrella Mycroft began to saunter down the corridor, leaving Sherlock behind. “Come on Redbeard, come on boy,” he called, and the swift blurry shadow of the setter he’d loved so much when he was still a young boy, whirled past Sherlock’s legs.

“Mycroft!” he yelled with all the air he had in his lungs, but all he managed to produce was a choked whisper.

“See you in six months, brother dear,” Mycroft called over the echo of his retreating footsteps.

“Mycroft!”

***

He felt so dreadfully lonely. It was pathetic, really.

***

A hasty fumble in the shed, to which they had retreated under the pretence of a search for garden shears to cut the holly Mummy insisted on decorating the house with, that was the grand total of their intimacy during the past few weeks. An aching need for his brother pounded in his blood all the time he was locked up as a guest of Her Majesty the Queen of England. 

The eerie quiet that reigned the countryside during the long winter nights, with nothing to distract him save for the occasional screeching of an owl or the sharp, anguished bark of a fox, only served to heighten his desire.

He’d discerned the cameras the moment he entered the room so he didn’t touch himself, not once, but he wished he could have been certain Mycroft was the one to watch the footage, for then he would have. Now, he just whispered his brother’s name in the dark, inaudible, over and over again.

“Mycroft.”

***

A flight attendant handed him a phone. Sherlock held it to his ear.

“Have you started on those files I gave you?” Mycroft asked, his voice deliberately neutral.

“No,” he snarled, refusing to shift his eyes to the seat onto which he’d tossed the slim leather attaché case with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. Mycroft had signalled wordlessly to one of his minions to hand it over, refusing to even look at him.

“Please do,” Mycroft continued in the same bland tone. “You’ll become a target for a number of rather nasty people the second your plane lands.”

“And what is it to you?” he sneered, and damn his heart for burning so hotly in his chest at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“We don’t want to upset Mummy, do we?”

“I hate you, Mycroft. I do hope you realise that!” Sherlock yelled into the mobile and ended the call by hurling it to the other side of the plane.

***

It wasn’t until they were cruising at thirty thousand feet over the flat polders that comprised the Dutch landscape that Sherlock felt collected enough to throw a gander at Mycroft’s stupid files. 

He studied the attaché case first. The black leather was drawn tight over some reinforcing material. He gave one of the sides a deft punch and almost gasped at the intense jolt of pain slamming into his knuckles. With the addition of its sharp brass corners the case was a weapon in itself, perfect for gauging out an eye or rendering a man unconscious by a crack at the head. It was evident Mycroft had put quite some thought into his choosing of the briefcase, though obviously not as much as he’d devoted to the purchase of his umbrella. Well, _Swaine Adeney Brigg_ , Mycroft’s habitual suppliers of his life’s daily comforts, sported a wide range of both accessories. It would have taken him less than twenty steps to traipse from one counter to the next.

With a deft twist of his thumbs Sherlock snapped open the locks of the briefcase and lifted the topmost folder from the stack. The file was comprised of long lists of names. Cities, villages, contacts, a précis of the people whose arrest he was supposed to ensure, complete with a handy dandy photograph of his designated quarries. Official absolution of all consequences was granted him if he saw no alternative to eliminating fifteen of them, provided it was done quickly and without a trace. Anthea’s small pool of minor assistants must have been as busy as a hive of buzzing little bees while they were compiling the files. 

The next folder contained an array of passports, debit and credit cards together with an example of autographs he was to master, and a short history of the various aliases he could assume. Sipping from the bone china mug of tea the flight attendant had served him, Sherlock read them through. They ranged from a German professor of chemistry to – here Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief before, reluctantly, chuckling at his brother’s sense of humour – a Swedish sales representative of pressure cookers. There was always a future in sales, wasn’t there? One that would last longer than six months, hopefully.

The plane was just crossing the Alps when the discovery of John’s Browning L9A1 in a carefully zipped-up evidence bag provided him with an unexpected perk. Of course Mycroft had enjoyed easy access to it. However, he must have suppressed a mountain range of bureaucratic mores to nick the gun from the archive where it had been filed for posterity. The corresponding silencer was new. Another plastic purse contained a stash of magazines, providing him with a hundred bullets. The British government expected Sherlock to uncover and fumigate sixteen men and three women. A hundred bullets ought to suffice.

The last folder in the bag proved to be suspiciously light, considering its girth. Sherlock weighed it in his hand. His heart hammered away inside his ribcage, loud and insistent, striking an absurd little spark of hope from the bone. Double-quick, he opened the portfolio. 

Inside he found a letter in his brother’s neat handwriting together with the cheap plastic mobile he habitually carried close on his person. It had, of course, been confiscated at his arrest. A quick scan of his eyes over the various nips and scratches on the casing proved it to be his, the twin of the phone in Mycroft’s possession. He clutched the ugly appliance tightly in his hand before turning his attention to the letter.

As ever, it was short and to the point, consisting mainly of a directory of safe houses and hotels Sherlock might consider as such, together with the passwords to grant himself access for a few hours, or maybe days, of recuperation. During his two years away from home he’d occasionally made use of the little side line of shelters Mycroft ran, unbeknownst to MI5 ánd MI6 both. Once back in London he’d deleted the addresses so he was genuinely grateful for Mycroft’s reminder. The letter’s last line read, _Don’t do anything rash._ Sherlock smiled and held the letter close to his nose. A faint whiff of _Clive Christian 1872_ wafted up at him. His eyelids fluttered closed and he inhaled deeply, dragging the memory of his brother’s scent up his nostrils and into his mind. It flittered through the window of the small room draped in dark grey, cashmere Glen plaid where he kept all things relating to Mycroft, straight into the Moroccan leather box he’d prepared for it. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes again he noticed the _s_ and the _h_ of the word _rash_ were smudged. Mycroft had pressed his lips to the letter after writing the last line. For all his dramatic display of detachment his brother was, at heart, a sentimental creature. Sherlock turned towards the window, his thumb happily caressing the phone’s casing. Not that he minded this streak in his sibling’s character, not one little bit.

“Thank you, brother dear,” he murmured at the tiny pane and the indifferent perpetual blue of the skies through which he was hurtled away from his brother.

***

The briefcase fully proved its worth less than ten minutes after landing. One moment he was strolling casually towards customs at Prishtina International Airport, glancing at his watch to check whether he’d adjusted the time correctly, the next found him panting over the unconscious figures of the two thugs who had pounced on him and started to drag him into the gents. He’d gone slack in their grip and wriggled himself loose the second they’d crossed the threshold, smashing the corner of the attaché into the groin of the man who’d been training a Sig Sauer P320 on him and whacking the side of the case into his buddy’s cheekbone with one supple sway of his arm. The brute had crashed against one of the porcelain sinks, helpfully hitting his head on the sharp edge to render himself fully out of the count. 

Meanwhile his colleague was wrestling himself out of the cage of primal shock the sudden contact of his genitals with a hard, pointy object had momentarily had relegated him to. Groaning, he slanted the gun at Sherlock again. A swift kick at his trembling wrist sent it skittering over the floor into a toilet stall. Sherlock noted it didn’t have a silencer. 

_Amateurs!_ his mind sneered.

He drove the corner of the briefcase into the goons nose, and jumped back to prevent the spray of blood that spouted forth from soiling his shoes and trouser legs. The man screamed in agony and clutched at his face. Sherlock dealt him another wallop to the back of the head and his assailant passed out. 

Giving the blood that was pooling on the floor a wide berth, Sherlock stepped up to the towel dispenser and ripped out some paper towels. He coated them liberally with soap and separated them into two wads he then proceeded to stuff down the throats of his attackers. One of the men was wearing a thin cotton shirt. With the aid of one of his lock picks he pierced the material and ripped it into strips he used to secure his makeshift gags into place.

The men’s baggy jeans were secured around their waists with cheap leather belts. These came in handy to tie their hands behind their backs. He lugged his muggers into the last toilet stall. The man whose nose he’d broken moved slightly. Sherlock silenced him with another blow with the case and decided to inflict one more on his friend for good measure.

All in all five minutes had passed since their first entry into the loo. Prishtina International Airport was a far cry from Heathrow but the absence of any prospective clients of the toilet facilities for such a long interval was rather suspicious. After retrieving the _Sig_ from the floor of the toilet stall Sherlock tiptoed over towards the door and positioned himself behind it.

His vigil soon came to an end when the door was thrown open and two men brandishing another copy from the Sig Sauer range bolted into the tiny area. Sherlock treated them to the same procedure with some minor variations. 

Two more times he took up a sentry position behind the door, and then all the booths were taken. He was just closing the door of the last one when a scrawny man dressed in a uniform scuttled into the restroom.

_Reddish hair. Pale freckled face, extremely shy. British, obviously._

“Apologies,” Sherlock smiled at the newcomer. “But all the stalls are occupied.”

“Oh,” the man – _airline personnel. Four stripes. Captain._ The pathetic little figure was an _airline captain_! Whatever had England come down to? – breathed, blushing so furiously Sherlock was for a moment convinced the man’s hair would combust spontaneously, “oh, I see. But I don’t actually… ahem, well, you know…”

Great, the man was as big an idiot as he looked. 

“And there are no towels,” Sherlock interrupted the moron’s babbling with a friendly smile, gesturing towards the dispenser from which he had torn the last towel two minutes ago.

“Oh yes, that is indeed…” the captain began, furtively transporting his cap from one arm to the other. His glance swivelled towards the small pool of blood on the floor and straight back up to Sherlock again.

“I strongly advise you to find another toilet,” continued Sherlock. “One should always have a towel handy to close the door as one leaves. Did you know that approximately one hundred and twenty bacteria per square inch live on the average toilet door handle? Only imagine the amounts that must have taken up residence here.”

“Really?” the small man shrieked, his gaze flitting in terror from Sherlock, to the blood, to the door he’d just let fall shut behind him and back to Sherlock again.

“Really,” Sherlock affirmed. “Fortunately, not all of them are harmful.”

Sweat had broken out on the air captain’s brow. If he hadn’t been such an utterly ridiculous person Sherlock might almost have felt sorry for him. 

“I… I’d…”

“Yeah, better go and find yourself a different loo,” Sherlock smiled down on him. “I’m sure there must be more. We’re still in Europe, after all.”

“Yes… errmm… actually, there is another…” the captain began, making his way to the door. Sherlock barraged past the frail figure and opened it wide, blinding the pilot with a smile as falsely ingratiating as that of any flight attendant that had ever suffered the misfortune of encountering him.

“I knew it,” he beamed. “Goodbye.” 

The man swivelled to address him but Sherlock shut the door into his hapless face and fell back against it with a heavy sigh. His legs trembled under the crash from his adrenaline rush. He pushed his arms against the sturdy backrest of the door to prevent himself from sliding down on his behind. Groaning, he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Mycroft had warned him, but that didn’t mean he was exempted automatically from some form of explanation.

***

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 18:17:47  
16-01-2014  
Thank you for the welcoming committee.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 17:21:03  
16-01-2014  
An unfortunate incident. Appropriate measures have been taken.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 18:22:57  
16-01-2014  
Good.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 17:24:41  
16-01-2014  
It won’t happen again.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 18:25:06  
16-01-2014  
Even better.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 17:27:51  
16-01-2014  
Are you all right?

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 18:30:05  
16-01-2014  
Already great chums with the police. Three of my assailants were wanted for various offences, apparently.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 17:32:43  
16-01-2014  
Please try to avoid the limelight. Stealth is of the essence.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 18:34:23  
16-01-2014  
For God’s sake!

 

Initially he’d composed an answer that was ruder by far and he barely refrained from adding _Mycroft_ before sending off his text. He lobbed the phone against the wall and hurled himself onto the small bed in the dump that passed itself off as an actual hotel.

***

Three months later he was running for his life again. This time, however, he was even more determined not to be caught. He wished to avoid a repetition of the so-called rescue drama Mycroft had organised about one and a half years ago at all costs. 

***

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 23:08:51  
04-05-2014  
Miss you.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 00:10:04  
05-05-2014  
Miss you too. Keep dreaming of you.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 23:11:49  
04-05-2014  
Sweet dreams.

 

Sender: Anonymous  
Received: 00:13:26  
05-05-2014  
Those too. Unfortunately, not all of them. Be careful, love.

 

Sherlock stared down at the last word of the text. Between the two of them they hardly ever used endearments. For Mycroft to have texted that word, his need for Sherlock must be like a physical ache in his body. The same physical ache that was crippling Sherlock’s own body, slowly transforming him into a three-toed sloth enjoying a lazy weekend in front of the telly. 

For a minute he was tempted to text Mycroft again and seek to lure him into some dirty texting while they got themselves off. Regrettably, the fact that Mycroft’s answers had so speedily evolved into an expression of concern told him that for all his obvious longing his brother was currently not in the mood.

Sighing, he tossed the mobile onto the nightstand and pulled the briefcase closer. Only the faintest trace of his scent lingered on Mycroft’s letter. Sherlock shed his clothes, not caring where they landed, and flopped back onto the bed. He draped the paper on top of his face, smothering himself in Mycroft. If he screwed his eyes shut he could even imagine the brush of the paper over his lips were Mycroft’s lip, tenderly caressing his.

“Mycroft,” he murmured. His hand trailed over his abdomen to where his penis awaited it, desperate and rigid, and already wet at the tip.

Twelve firm strokes and he came, warm ejaculate splattering on his stomach while he bit back his brother’s name and the letter flitted onto the pillow.

“Mycroft.”

***

The bell of the church on top of the cliff rising high above the city chimed eleven times. Sherlock folded his newspaper, downed the last of his coffee, closed the button of his jacket, and embarked on his stroll down the city’s broad, leafy boulevards back to the hotel. 

The former spa town clung to its bygone Habsburg grandeur with the dedicated despair of an alpinist who has lost his footing and holds onto the rock face with all his might to prevent himself from plummeting into the chasm. It was in fact a charmingly attractive place, with the grand facades of its many palaces, slowly but inevitably crumbling under the continuing onslaught of harsh cold winters and even harsher summers, and its spacious squares adorned with ornate semi-baroque fountains. 

Mycroft would have liked it here, Sherlock mused wistfully as he lit his cigarette, relishing the flavour of the strong pungent smoke rolling around in his mouth. After all, his brother had always exhibited a morbid taste for things past, at the same time loudly vociferating his disapproval of Sherlock’s interest in dead bodies. In the end it all came down to decay, although Sherlock was willing to concede old buildings generally smelt better.

With only six more men to go Sherlock had decided he was entitled to a little holiday and extended his visit to the place with a few days. His hotel room was spacious and clean with a comfortable bed and an attached bathroom, quite an improvement after the boltholes that had served as his abode for the past months. Two more days and then he would be ready to hit the road again. 

“Ihr Freund erwartet Sie in Ihrem Zimmer, Herr Professor Richter,” the elderly receptionist, who bore a vague resemblance to Mrs Hudson – one of the reasons he’d become rather attached to the place, informed him in her best German while handing him his key. Sherlock had told her in passable Slovenian she could address him in her mother tongue, but she insisted on speaking German, stating he were the guest and she should do everything to make him feel welcome.

“Ach so, sehr gut. Danke schön,” he smiled back at her. 

On the dimly lit staircase, sentenced to a state of perpetual gloom by the thick layer of rotting leaves that covered the aureate ceiling light, Sherlock consigned himself to one of its corners for a moment to gather his wits and his strength. Once his blood stopped pounding in his ears he took a deep breath and hurried up the stairs to the second floor. There he let himself into the communal bathroom, donned a pair of latex gloves. and retrieved his accumulated stash of Sig Sauers in their watertight plastic bag from the toilet reservoir. He chose the one that had come to him provided with a silencer, stuck it into his waistband, zipped up the bag and lowered it into the reservoir again.

The door handle rattled.

“Trenutek, prosim,” he called. After flushing the gloves through the toilet he took his time to wash his hands, staring at his reflection in the spotted mirror over the sink.

 _No questions, just shoot him and get out of here_ , his resemblance instructed him. 

“Se opravičujem,” he apologised to the chagrined hotel guest waiting in the corridor with his wash bag and a towel slung over his shoulder. One shot at the man’s disgruntled figure told him this wasn’t his killer. Slowing his gait to a casual ramble he strolled down the corridor. Behind him he heard the door to the bathroom being shut and the key being turned in the lock.

Back on the staircase Sherlock freed the gun from his waistband and ran up the stairs to his own floor, taking two steps at a time. With the gun at the ready he crept up to the door to his room. Inside his chest, his heart was hammering insistently. He felt for the door handle. 

“Ne premikaj se!” Sherlock threw open the door and jumped into the room, aiming his gun at the figure who had snuggled himself audaciously between his sheets to read a newspaper.

 _TWO SLOVENIAN WAR CRIMINALS ARRESTED_ yesterday’s _The Times_ headline flashed before his eyes. He’d recognise the fingers that were curled around the paper’s pages anywhere. Presently, the fingers lowered the paper to reveal his brother’s face and the russet curls on his – _delicious_ – bare chest.

“I’m relieved to find your months out here in the Eastern-European wilderness haven’t robbed you of your flair for overly dramatic entrées – _blud_. Though I’m rather disappointed you’ve robbed _me_ of my chance at an appropriate welcome quote.”

“Mycroft,” panted Sherlock. The gun slid from his suddenly weak hand and fell with a resounding thud on the scuffed parquet floor. “Jesus, Mycroft.” He closed the door and was standing next to the bed in three strides, looming over his brother who stared up at him with a smug smile on his features. In sharp contrast, his eyes, Sherlock noted, smouldered with undisguised hunger.

“The same,” Mycroft confirmed, wrapping his long fingers around the calf of Sherlock’s left leg and brushing the fabric over his skin, just a little. “I was going to ask whether that was a gun in your pocket or if you were just happy to see me. However, I find,” his glance drifted down from Sherlock’s face, over his still heaving ribcage and abdomen towards Sherlock’s groin, “I already know the answer. _Hello_ , did you miss me?”

Giddy with relief, Sherlock laughed. The sight of his brother, naked and wanton in his bed, and the feel of his hand on his leg already had him ridiculously aroused. He cupped his brother’s chin and bent over to kiss him, greedily, plundering his brother’s mouth with his tongue. Initially Mycroft complied but after far too short a time he pushed Sherlock away. 

“Much as I adore losing myself in that delectable mouth of yours I suggest you first lock the door and undress, Sherlock. I want to see you naked.” Sherlock made to spring away, happy to comply on this uncommon occasion were Mycroft’s disposition fortuitously matched his own. His brother’s hand slotted itself even tighter around his calf. “Not so hasty, dear little brother of mine. I want you to take your time in doing so. We’ve got thirty four hours and I want to savour every second of them.”

Only now did he let go of Sherlock’s leg, pushing him a way with a playful shove against his thigh. Heroically suppressing the pout of annoyed impatience Sherlock felt hovering around his lips he spun on his heels to do as instructed, conceding there was nothing for it. In contrast to Sherlock’s more direct approach, Mycroft’s ideas of pleasure revolved mainly around delayed gratification. 

Every once in a while the elder brother would yield to the yearnings of the younger and take the edge off Sherlock’s desire by bringing him off with his hand or mouth before their thrilling tumble down the effervescent slopes of mutual debauchery and indulgence. This time he’d obviously determined _his_ preferences should rule the day. And, seeing as how his presence was the fulfilment of Sherlock’s most fervent wish, Sherlock was for once more than amenable to abide by his brother’s commands. 

Besides, he loved stripping for his elder sibling. The look of unabated lust that stealthily stole over Mycroft’s face as he watched, the way his mouth fell slightly open, was nearly as gratifying as the frantic barrage of his hands on the more intimate regions of Sherlock’s body that was the inevitable outcome of these private pantomimes.

“Any stage directions?” Sherlock asked in as lackadaisical a voice as he could muster, after locking the door.

“Over there, if you please,” gestured Mycroft with a dainty wave of his hand, indicating the area in front of the antique walnut dresser. A full-length multifaceted mirror was set into its door, granting Mycroft an unencumbered view of Sherlock’s back while he doffed his clothes. 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in appreciation of the arrangement, dashed forward to collect the rickety chair from the smart little desk at the side of the bed, and sat down to untie his shoelaces. 

After he’d toed off his shoes and got rid of his socks Sherlock leveraged himself from the chair and shoved it aside to clear the stage. He worried his lower lip in a show of lascivious innuendo, nipping it with his teeth and teasing his brother with glimpses of his wet tongue. 

Mycroft nodded approvingly. “You really are a very pretty thing,” he assented. “Too bad you aren’t wearing your coat. It would have been an extra layer to discard and have helped to build the suspense.”

“It’s a bit warm in this weather,” chuckled Sherlock. “I can always put it on, if you want me to.”

The top sheet surged as Mycroft drew up his knees, effectively screening his abdomen and part of his chest from Sherlock’s view. “Thank you,” he answered. His face bore its carefully arranged _neutral_ position. “That won’t be necessary. You have leave to slip off your jacket – slowly. Keep your eyes on me.”

“Jesus, Mycroft,” Sherlock protested. “I’m not one of those lackeys of yours to lord it over as you see fit.” Unfortunately, the hard evidence of his visceral reaction to his elder brother bossing him around undermined his outcry of justified pique.

“Thank heavens, no.” Mycroft shuddered and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated pretension of revulsion. “You’re infinitely more intriguing and considerably more alluring. Come on, Sherlock, it’s no use denying you love to show off and after those months of running around you’re bound to look better than ever, if that were remotely possible.”

“All you have to do is ask nicely,” Sherlock pouted. In his mind he berated himself for letting Mycroft sweet talk him with a few scraps of haphazardly tossed flattery. What did he even care whether Mycroft believed him to be handsome? His boring, officious brother ought to be grateful Sherlock condescended to bed him at all.

“We both know that would never work,” Mycroft broke into his thoughts. “Besides, I don’t mind catering to your little submissive streak. We all have our flaws and this one is harmless enough. Quite endearing, in fact. Jacket off – now!”

With prompt obedience Sherlock brought up his hands to the lapels of his jacket. He let them float in the air, giving Mycroft some time to admire the contrast between the incandescent paleness of his skin and the midnight blue wool of his jacket. Then he tugged the garment of his shoulders, pivoted on one leg and held his arms straight behind his back to let the jacket slide down of its own accord.

“Nice,” Mycroft acceded.

Sherlock sighed. Sometimes his elder sibling was damn hard to please. “I actually put in a lot of practice to master that trick. It isn’t as easy as it looks,” he grumbled.

“Don’t sulk, brother dear. Come here.” Mycroft crooked his finger at Sherlock. For the fleetest of seconds Sherlock considered disobeying, but years of routine kicked in and he felt his feet moving and dragging him to the bed where Mycroft sat awaiting him with a Delphian smile on his face. 

Mycroft circled his fingers around Sherlock’s hand and pulled quickly, nearly causing Sherlock to lose his footing and have him topple on top of Mycroft in an undignified heap. He ended up with the side of his head in front of Mycroft’s mouth. 

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered into his ear, “I’m looking forward to _fucking_ you every bit as much as you are. And I hereby solemnly swear that I will _fuck_ you so hard you’ll be screaming for mercy while imploring me to keep it up at the same time. Meanwhile, you, oh filthy little brother of mine, will do as I please, without so much as a complaint, or any of your other shenanigans. Have I made myself quite clear, Sherlock?”

The sound of his voice and the threats he made poured into Sherlock’s ear like molten sex. Mycroft seldom availed himself of coarse words, even in bed, and generally upbraided Sherlock for his more liberal use of them. Thus, the few times Mycroft did fall back on dirty language were a guarantee to have Sherlock rock-hard instantly. Except in this case, he already was. He shivered and fought down the moan that threatened to escape from his throat. 

“Yes, Mycroft.” He’d meant to spit out his brother’s name and scolded himself inwardly for his lack of composure for it sounded more like a whine. A flurry of breath past his cheek informed him Mycroft was laughing silently. Sharp teeth took hold of his earlobe. Mycroft nibbled and suckled, slowly and luxuriously, while palming the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. He ended by giving Sherlock’s genitals an appreciative twist.

“Good boy,” he praised. “Now get on with it.”

As fast as he could move Sherlock scurried back to his small stage in front of the mirror. He took a moment to recompose himself. Then he looked down in order to concentrate on undoing the button of his trousers.

“Oh no, you don’t. Shirt first, I think. And remember what I said, Sherlock, eyes on me. Don’t make me have to remind you for a third time.” The unspoken threat with all its titillating implications hovered seductively in the air between them. Sherlock could feel it stretching out one finger to land on the tip of his nose and trail down from there, over his panting lips, along his throat, to skip over the round tor of his Adam’s apple. Landing on the dip between his collarbones it dove under his shirt and continued its course down his chest where the sweat of his arousal prickled beneath his skin.

“Why don’t you begin with the button of your left cuff?” Mycroft suggested in a kinder tone. 

Fixing his stare on his brother Sherlock bent his left arm in front of his chest and flicked the button out of its small hole. Letting his arm drop to his side he proceeded to fold back the cuff, once, to disclose the sculpted slenderness of his wrist. He wriggled it loosely. From his vantage point on Sherlock’s bed Mycroft murmured his admiration.

“You’re exquisite. All that wiry strength and yet you’re still the same Adonis you were when we first started our naughty, little illicit liaison. Now show me what your other wrist looks like, would you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock smiled, basking in the warmth of Mycroft’s veneration of his physique. On balance, _his_ opinion was the only one Sherlock was interested in. He was his brother’s, as much as his brother was his. Quickly, he fulfilled Mycroft’s command.

“Very good. I must commend you on the choice of your shirt, Sherlock dear. That cornflower blue enhances the radiance of your skin most attractively and it further helps to bring forth the gold flecks in your eyes. You may now open it for me. Although I propose you don’t divest yourself of it. Unless you’d mind it getting soiled, naturally.”

“They have a laundry service.”

“Ah, the conveniences of a barely adequate hotel. Uncover yourself, then. Spoil me.” Mycroft slithered down the mattress and spread his knees somewhat. Disappointingly, the sheet didn’t dip low enough to reveal the outline of his hips beneath it.

Still gazing steadfastly into his brother’s eyes, Sherlock opened the topmost button of his shirt.

“I’d prefer you to work your way from bottom to top,” Mycroft corrected him. It was evident he was aiming for a bland quality of voice but a slight hesitancy in his pronunciation taught Sherlock his elder sibling was having a hard time of it. “Just pull the tails of your shirt out of your trousers,” he managed nevertheless.

“Why must you always insist on taking the most illogical and convoluted approach to even the simplest of tasks?” Sherlock snarled. All the same he embarked on the execution of Mycroft’s idea, tugging irritably at the fabric of his shirt.

“Careful, or you’ll rip it. Haven’t I just told you how much I like that shirt? I would be sincerely sorry if you had to throw it away.”

“I might use it to strangle you first,” Sherlock gritted, jerking the back of the shirt past the waistband of his trousers.

Mycroft tipped up his chin. “I’ve never cared much for erotic asphyxiation,” he said. “We might try it one time if you’re truly desperate to explore its limited charms, but not now. Just go on with what you were doing, Sherlock. But do slow down a little; I was rather enjoying the spectacle and you know how much pleasure I derive from drawing out the anticipatory excitement.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft. You know I don’t…”

“Obviously,” Mycroft interrupted him. “But you should learn your lesson and not provide me with such an incentive by snapping so eagerly every single time. Now, continue, if you please.” 

Glaring with narrowed eyes at his infuriating sibling Sherlock reached for the lowest button of his shirt. Maddeningly, he found he couldn’t control the slight trembling of his hands. Of course Mycroft noticed the clumsy slip of his fingers on the tiny mother of pearl disc, but he’d clearly decided to be so kind as to overlook this minor glitch in his younger sibling’s performance.

In undoing the button Sherlock’s fingers brushed past the zip of his trousers and the throbbing erection that stood buried beneath the cloth. Furtively, he pressed his fingertips against his member. A sharp jolt of lust shot up his spine.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned immediately. “Dear me, brother mine. Always so impatient.”

“Please, Mycroft,” he begged, swallowing the self-hatred he felt swelling in his chest upon hearing the shrill need in his voice. His member, his testicles, his whole pelvis, screamed their urge to be touched at him.

“I said no,” Mycroft smirked. The self-satisfied prig was having a ball with his lazy perambulation around Sherlock’s capacities for endurance. “Why don’t you move your hands over to the next button so you can execute your substantial skills in less dangerous territory?” he suggested helpfully.

“I don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Ah, but you do. Such is the melancholy fortune of the desperate show-off. You’ve struck lucky though, in having acquired me for your admiring audience. Chop chop.”

Deciding that further protests would merely result in an insufferable prolongation of his torment Sherlock pushed the next button through its hole with the matter-of-factness of an automaton working an assembly line. To indicate his dissatisfaction with the situation he didn’t bother with looking even remotely enticing, trailing his hands to the next button with a scowl on his face. His eyes dared his brother to chide him for his impertinence. Surprisingly, Mycroft remained quiet, conspicuously quiet. 

Sherlock sloshed water onto the flames of mutiny surging in his chest and – his hands still faithfully at work – observed his brother. Mycroft was staring at him with a fixed look, the smug smile chivalrously making a huge effort to remain glued to his face, but inevitably slipping to the precipice of his jaw. The sheet hanging between his legs rippled in time to the dance of the sparse freckles dappling his shoulder and his upper arm as the muscles moved beneath his skin. Sherlock’s fingers stuttered to a halt. Rage exploded behind his eyes in a shower of fiery-hot sparks. He drew in a deep breath to stifle his anger. The conceited bastard was touching himself after denying Sherlock the same temporary relief. It was _unfair_.

“Life often is, Sherlock,” came Mycroft’s – slightly breathless – voice. “It only concerns itself with the propagation of the species, not with moral justice. You should have paid better attention during your history classes. Then you would know that the valiant are often vanquished and the innocent are always made to suffer. How unfortunate your natural disposition caused you to gravitate – your little dabbling in chemistry aside – towards the more physical quota on the curriculum. Not that I’m complaining, mind you

“You… you utter git,” Sherlock spat, yanking at the last remaining button. A swish of air flurried over his heated skin as the front parts fell open.

“Oh,” Mycroft keened, but he was greedily gobbling up Sherlock with his eyes. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re angry. Why don’t you turn around, _darling_ , so you can admire that heaving chest with its warm blush of indignation and the bright sparkle of your eyes?” His hand stilled. “Though I would prefer you to now rid yourself of those trousers and pants that are blocking my view and come over here to reap your reward. After all, you’ve earned it.”  
He raised the sheet invitingly.

In that moment Sherlock almost wished he had the discipline to remain at his spot in front of the dresser in righteous resentment, or better still, to don the clothes he’d discarded and stalk out of the room to leave Mycroft to his own devious devices. Get himself off in one of the communal bathrooms while imaging Mycroft was on his knees in front of him, blabbing away incessantly until Sherlock yanked at his hair and forced him to open his mouth wide so Sherlock could feed him something that was actually worthy of contemplation. He cursed himself for lacking the fortitude to resist; succumbing as ever to the heady pull of the promise Mycroft had tempted him with earlier. In the end he settled for glaring daggers at his brother while he slid out of his pants and trousers in one supple motion and flung them across the room. Mycroft’s breath hitched and the sudden sound stopped Sherlock short.

“Christ, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last in a voice that betrayed his suppressed emotion, “why are you still standing there?”

In two strides Sherlock was in the bed and on top of his brother. Mycroft took hold of him and gave him a quick stroke; then he relaxed his grip somewhat and slowed the movement of his hand.

“Kiss me, brother,” Mycroft demanded. Sherlock bent forward to comply, cupping the back of Mycroft’s head and impatiently invading his brother’s mouth, their tongues twined in the war dance that was at once familiar and newly rousing at every engagement. Sherlock shoved Mycroft’s hand aside and ground their erections together in a bold imitation of their tongues’ elaborate gyrations. A small moan escaped from Mycroft’s lips. The noise proved to be immediately addictive. In order to hear it again Sherlock twisted his hips even firmer. On cue, Mycroft moaned, a hint of agony escaping on the exhale of air. His eyelids fell half-closed, lashes guarding the dark swirl of his dilating pupils.

“You’ll undo me,” he warned in a ragged voice. “Please, Sherlock.” 

A sinfully sweet sensation of pride and satisfaction shot through Sherlock’s veins upon perceiving his brother’s groaned plea. “That definitely wouldn’t do, Mycroft,” he gloated, “not yet, at least.” It was extremely gratifying to be on top of his elder brother in more than just a literal sense after having been reduced to his role of obedient younger sibling first. He ceased the motion of his hips, and raised himself a tad so his dangling erection barely brushed his brother’s. Mycroft’s head tilted accommodatingly at the slight tug Sherlock gave it, to grant himself better access to his mouth. Their lips glided slickly against and over each other, until their mouths were puffed-up and bruised from the exertion. The occasional sweep of their members had them both grunting.

A fleeting sensation stole over his shoulder blades, Mycroft’s fingertips, exploring his back through the layer of his shirt. Ripples of pleasure undulated down Sherlock’s spine as the hands slid lower. They smoothed the soft cotton over his back. Once they arrived at his hips they moved over to his front and dipped under the fabric. The skin of his abdomen quivered as the finger pads landed on his hips and recommenced their journey of discovery, caressing the sharp jut of the bones and the chiselled lines of iliac crest before embarking on a tauntingly slow crawl to his behind. There the light whisper of fingertips ascended to a full-scale grapple for a handful of both cheeks. Willingly, he shoved his buttocks into his brother’s grasping hands. They taunted his flesh, squeezing it, kneading it, spreading it wide and driving him wild. He sobbed into his brother’s mouth, attacking him with the ferocity of a bandit troop overrunning a nunnery. 

“I’m preparing a law,” Mycroft announced when Sherlock let go of his lips. Confused, Sherlock frowned down on his brother whose dishevelled appearance stood out in sharp contrast to the boring, governmental mumbo jumbo he was uttering.  
“Is this your idea of exciting bed talk?” he asked, a little petulantly. What was Mycroft thinking, they’d been going along so well. In answer he got another firm squeeze of his bottom while Mycroft went on, “To have that delectable behind of yours declared illegal. No man should have the right to walk around with such a constant sexual assault on one’s senses on top of his legs. Speaking of which, maybe I should have those outlawed as well. Why don’t you swivel around so I can have a closer look at the law’s subject and devote myself to its preparation…”

_Oh._

Quickly, Sherlock scudded into position at the end of the bed, sticking his backside up in the air and presenting himself to his brother, while he scrunched his eyes shut to better experience the anticipation. A warm hand descended on the small of his back and pushed down. “Spread your legs wider, Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded remarkably self-composed again. “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

Knowing full well that Mycroft _enjoyed_ the sight of Sherlock rubbing himself against the sheets at least as much as Sherlock enjoyed the sensation, he acceded nevertheless, digging his shaft into the sheets, which were, he realised, not as soft as the high thread-count cotton ones covering Mycroft’s bed. The itch just added to his distraction and he moved faster, yearning for the contact, for release. A small damp patch grew on the sheet beneath him. He moaned, once, slowly and luxuriously. 

Behind him Mycroft responded with an indistinct noise. It might have been another hitch of his breath, an exclamation of pain or outrage or a declaration of love, Sherlock was unsure.  
He looked back over his shoulder but Mycroft’s face was hidden from his view. The next moment he almost bolted from his position as warm air stole over his perineum and Mycroft’s wet lips assaulted him. 

“Jesus,” he swore, his eyes flying open. Immediately he started pushing back into the sensation of the moist mouth pressed against his entrance. “Oh god…” he sobbed as Mycroft trailed his tongue in a long, lush lick from the top of his cleft down to his testicles, lingering for a while in the soft spot behind his balls, and back-up again. More deliciously hot dewiness rushed over his flesh and then the piercing dagger of Mycroft’s tongue battered Sherlock and his brother applied himself ardently to the task of eating him and reducing him to a quivering, begging heap, ready for the taking. 

“You don’t have to…” he stammered, even though his hips shifted so he could back up against Mycroft’s mouth in muted entreaty. Breath pressed into the shape of words whispered against the ring of muscle Mycroft was massaging. 

_But I want to… oh yes… please…_

His hands clawed at the billowing folds of sheets in a desperate scramble for purchase against the waves of naked lust that, roused by the tortuous swirls of Mycroft’s tongue, threatened to surge over his body and drag him under. Except, Mycroft wasn’t the only one who wanted, and now he had slipped his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, making him wet, wet everywhere and Sherlock plugged into the feeling of Mycroft’s tongue inside him. It was so rich, so gorgeous every single time Mycroft indulged him in this way and he ought to be thankful and he was for he wanted this, wanted this so much. 

“Mycroft,” he sobbed his brother’s name into the sheets. For once he didn’t care it might be interpreted as an endearment or, perish the thought, a plea for more. All he cared about was for the palatial twists and turns of Mycroft’s tongue to never ever stop. 

The next second he felt Mycroft’s warm, lubricated hand slither beneath him, past his balls to close around his straining shaft. He jerked backwards and nearly howled with the sensation. Mycroft played him like an instrument, steadfastly pushing inside and despoiling him with his warm mouth pressed close while strong fingers slid along his erection, not really stroking but encouraging him to rut into their moist heat. Furtively, he shifted his hips. He didn’t really want to, in fact, he needed to come with Mycroft buried deep inside him, but he’d been patient for so long now, hovering on the cusp, and Mycroft was attacking him and actively giving him carte blanche and he shuddered; ready to let the sensation sweep over him.

And just as sudden he lost it.

“Time to get rid of that shirt now,” Mycroft said, pulling away from the spot where his mouth had been put to the best possible use Sherlock could imagine for it. The bloody, annoying _twat_ had no business to sound so self-composed, not after nearly rendering Sherlock incapable of a single coherent thought except for the urge to start pulsing into his brother’s hand. 

His arms were twisted behind his body and the shirt yanked up and over his hands. Sherlock turned his head to cast his brother a withering look, his mouth was already open to demand what the _fuck_ Mycroft thought he was doing, when the sight of his brother’s face made his breath hitch.

“Please sit up and hold onto the bedstead, Sherlock?” Mycroft instructed him. His voice was shaking. Still looking at Mycroft over his shoulder Sherlock hastened to comply, scrambling up on his knees and positioning himself. His erection bounced up and down between his legs, screaming for attention.

“Do you need?” began Mycroft but Sherlock hurried to interrupt him. “No, just… do it, God, Mycroft.” He let go of the bedstead and reached behind him to spread himself wide open and show Mycroft how ready he was to receive him. It would hurt, probably, just a little, but he didn’t care, not now, not any longer.

“All right,” Mycroft said, still sounding quite unlike his usual complacent self. “All right, just…”

A warm, wet kiss landed on Sherlock’s nape, beneath the fringe of hair curling there. Mycroft’s slack mouth ghosted air over the tender spot and the sensitive follicles of Sherlock’s skin surged in a ripple which undulated along his spine, down to where Mycroft’s fingers were smearing him with lubricant and back up past his testicles to the very tip of his penis that spasmed, once, dilating slightly to release one tiny bead of fluid. He looked, licking his lips and then he arched his back, holding onto the cheeks of his buttocks with all the steadfast determination of a drowning victim clinging to a piece of flotsam. 

“Mycroft,” he whined, “I need… oh…”

Mycroft’s left arm curled around his chest while his right hand was busy positioning the head of his penis against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock wriggled and started to push back, over the slippery, blunt tip, down into Mycroft’s lap. His brother’s mouth coasted over his neck to his shoulder and bit down there, hard, his breath screeching out of his lungs with the ferocity of an overworked hoover. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft had lost all his customary suavity, desperately thrusting his hips up to bury himself deeper into Sherlock who was equally violently bent on taking him all in, shoving his hips in quick little moves until he felt the wispy curls of Mycroft’s pubic hair tickle the sensitised skin of his cleft and had speared himself fully.

They both waited until their breath had steadied somewhat. Then Mycroft nudged Sherlock with his forehead, dropped a kiss on the shell of his ear. “Grasp the railing and don’t let go.”

Gingerly, Sherlock took hold of the railing. Once he had a good grasp he raised himself on his knees and plunged down again, gasping when in a stroke of luck the tip of Mycroft’s penis brushed against his prostate. He quickly repeated the motion, groaning each time his prostate was prodded.

The muscles of his thighs trembled. It was all too much. Mycroft filling him completely, slotted against his back, and breathing him in, the scent of their struggling bodies wafting up into the warm air of the room. Mycroft holding him so tight and, _oh Christ_ , bucking up into him, hitting his prostate again, white-hot light exploding in his belly. Mycroft’s right hand on his leg, heavy palm trailing upwards, crinkling the sparse hairs, lingering close to his crotch where Sherlock needs him but never touching, drawing little circles onto the soft skin. Mycroft gasping close to his ear.

Lost in abandon he twisted his head to search for Mycroft’s mouth. They kissed, sloppy, wet sounds rising from their lips and from lower down, where Sherlock was riding his brother in mindless determination. He was reduced to a taut arc of craving desire, not able to think past the heat of the slide of their skin, the buck of his hips as Mycroft drove into him time and again, the ache in his balls.

His name was a constant murmur in Mycroft’s mouth, hand circling so close, teasing him and then Mycroft urged him to look and they both watched as the slit of Sherlock’s penis dilated again, and emitted a drabble of sperm that dripped slowly down over his glans.

“Sherlock, I can’t …” Their fingers entwined on his shaft and he was coming, sperm welling up in hot surges to glue their hands together, its bitter smell saturating the room. He kept pushing back into Mycroft, relishing his ride over the waves that kept cresting and sucking his body under into the spray. Mycroft, generous Mycroft helped him surf the highs of his orgasm, not letting go of him until Sherlock’s exhausted head slumped back onto his shoulder. Sherlock felt his brother’s hands settling on his hips, with a last effort he heaved himself up and down again and then Mycroft was pulsing inside him, grunting in his neck and they both collapsed onto the bed.

***

The violent eardrum-shattering boom blaring from a car passing beneath their window roused him from the slumber he’d succumbed to. A fall of sunlight streamed into the room, scarcely hindered by the slats of the shutters. Beneath his cheek he felt the regular rise and fall of Mycroft’s ribcage. He pressed his ear tight against the flesh and listened to the steady beat of his brother’s heart. 

“Hello,” Mycroft’s greeting rumbled up at him. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

“Was awake,” Sherlock demurred, stirring his limbs. Regrettably, his sleep-slurred vowels undercut his immediate rebuttal. He tilted his head to glare at Mycroft but found himself blinking to lift the heavy veil of paradisiacal torpidity that lingered in front of his eyes. Deciding a scowl was too much of an effort Sherlock settled for snuggling closer against Mycroft’s wonderfully familiar form instead.

“Obviously,” his elder sibling soothed in an easy tone, the hand he rested on Sherlock’s waist caressing his skin. “You were merely treating your eyes to a little beauty nap.” His lips landed on top of Sherlock’s frowning forehead. “Don’t look grumpy now or you’ll spoil the effect. Here, let me.” He produced one of his ridiculous handkerchiefs, starched and pressed into a neat, flat square, sprinkled with rosewater and almost the size of tablecloth, to clean Sherlock of the sperm and lubricant that was dribbling out of him.

Sherlock huffed and lifted a lazy hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. “I suppose you’ll need to feed that sluggish, fat body of yours,” he remarked, offhandedly. “Or hasn’t it yet recovered from the work-out I submitted it to? It must be aching all over from the sudden exercise after withering under months of negligent abuse.” It took some wriggling but then he managed to raise himself on one elbow so he could study the effect of his jibe on his brother’s features.

To his disappointment any indication of Mycroft’s chagrin stayed hidden beneath his habitual, bland expression of minor British government bore. “I do have a treadmill, Sherlock,” he droned in the official tone he normally reserved for the most obtuse of his minions or their mother after a particularly exasperating exposé of unsolicited parental advice. 

“Which was languishing under a thick layer of dust the last time I saw it,” Sherlock quipped. 

“I’ve had my hands rather full lately.”

“Not nearly enough yet.” Sherlock reached for Mycroft’s fingers and curled them around his member, which twitched eagerly in response. “Thank god, we still have thirty hours left. A pity to waste one of those on the dull pastime of stuffing oneself with boring food but, seeing as how you’re a fat, greedy glutton, it can’t be helped, I suppose.” 

“Hhmm.” Mycroft treated him to a luxurious, long stroke before letting go with a flippant flick of his wrist. “I’m touched to find in the end you have my best interests at heart.” 

Fiercely fighting the blush of annoyance he felt spreading over his cheekbones at his brother’s casual dismissal, Sherlock retorted, “I always have. There’s a halfway decent restaurant two streets down from here. I haven’t been there myself, but I can tell it will serve by the state of the bottom half of the door handle. Shall we get dressed, then? The sooner we get it over with the sooner we can re-engage ourselves in activities which are actually advantageous to your health.”

Infuriatingly, the only reaction his taunts got out of Mycroft was a fat chuckle of genuine amusement. “You’re even more gorgeous when you sulk,” he laughed, towing his hand through the eddying waves of Sherlock’s curls. “Is that the reason you pout so much? I wouldn’t be surprised. Ultimately, you’re a vain creature first and foremost. But no, Sherlock dear, I wasn’t planning on taking you out to a restaurant so we can play footsie under the table.”

He wrapped a strand of hair around his forefinger and tugged. “Please be so kind as to lift your gracious form off the bed and proceed to the bathroom to fetch the hamper I carried you all the way from good old England. While you’re at it you might lift the champagne out of the sink as well. It ought to be properly chilled by now and will no doubt taste like heaven with the season’s first strawberries and some clotted cream.”

“Must you sound like a particularly uninspired ad from the British tourism agency?” Sherlock queried, but all he got for his peeved insult was another playful yank at the curl Mycroft was holding prisoner and a counter question.

“Must you sound like a perpetually pissed-off fourteen-year-old whenever we share the same room?”

 _And what if I do?_ , Sherlock wanted to shout but he bit his lip as he realised that would have been the average teenager’s immediate response. 

“See?” Mycroft said, sweetly, and gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the lips before shoving him out of bed. “Strawberries, Sherlock. We both know you’re secretly pleased I brought them so you might as well cease your grumblings and get them.”

With a deliberately ungracious shrug Sherlock swivelled his feet to the floor and leveraged himself from the bed.

“Oh, and before I forget, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued. The pitch of his voice halted Sherlock and induced him to throw his brother a look over his shoulder. His eyes widened when they caught hold of Mycroft’s expression.

“I love you.” 

That went straight to the solar plexus. Damn Mycroft and his uncanny ability to catch Sherlock unawares. Sherlock blinked quickly before shaping his lips into a deliberate curl of amusement. “Sentiment, Mycroft? Wasn’t it you who taught me it’s always found in the losing side?” he huffed, but he took great care to swing his hips as he walked to the bathroom, for he did care about his brother and he knew the view of his gently swaying backside provided Mycroft with pleasure to no end.


End file.
